


The Lives We Lost

by MarigoldWritesThings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depressed!Draco - Freeform, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, PTSD, Post War, Slow Burn, auror!Harry, therapist!Ron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-29 18:46:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14478903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldWritesThings/pseuds/MarigoldWritesThings
Summary: Three years after the war, Draco struggles to move on. When his therapist quits on him, and the new one is more familiar than he'd like, things are set to change. Can old rivalries be set aside to make way for something new?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: descriptions of anxiety and ptsd at the beginning, therapy
> 
> This is a WIP - I do not have an update schedule and fit writing in between work and life. Please bare with me.

I’ll run across the courtyard this time, he thought. I will. Just watch, I will. I’ll run to him. But his legs caught in lead, the cobbles suddenly unstable and his mind trapped inside his own treacherous body - he stayed still, at the side of the monster, just like that time. Just like every time. 

Just like every night, he woke up with a start, a half-scream, and sweat pouring down his back and thighs, cold against the burning skin. Then a knock on the door. 

“Is everything alright, dear?”

He struggled against his closing throat for his voice to sound convincing. “Yes mother. Everything is fine.” 

Narcissa walked away, footsteps echoing across the empty halls. _The same steps he took. The same halls._

Sleep was not returning, but Draco wasn’t certain if he’d welcome it. It reminded him of the choices his past self made, and sharing a body with the boy he was back then made him shiver and sick. (The boy he still was, buried under guilt.)

He got up, went to the bathroom, washed his face. Washed his finger nails, three times. Washed his mouth out with Listerine, a muggle mouthwash he’d been using since magic stopped being enough. It burned his mouth, burned his gums, stronger than Firewhisky. He scrubbed his body with a wire brush until his skin looked raw – and still, he did not feel clean. 

Never enough. 

He sent letters, of course, when everything was done, but even he had to admit they sounded forced and fake and like the looser trying to get into the winners’ good graces. He never could convince anyone, not even really himself, and the Wizengamot only let him be because he was “under duress”. “Under coercion – did what he could to save his mother.” If not for that, she couldn’t save Potter. Innocent by association. 

The words echoed in his mind over and over, like a broken poem or half remembered song lyrics. They never really went away, only hid in plane sight, ready to emerge if his brain was given half the chance of quiet. Repeating. Constant loop. Innocent by association. Innocent by association. Innocent by- 

“Your room is a mess,” Draco said to himself, out loud, knowing full well no one could hear him across the rooms. It stopped the other voice, if just for a minute. Still, he did not clean. 

In the morning, three taps on a window. An owl, and a letter which only states “Your therapist has quit, we are terribly sorry, a replacement has been made and will meet you…” Same time, same place, and Draco really couldn’t care less who’s face it was he’d ignore for an hour, just to get mother of his back. 

The face he did not expect had greeted him with a half-hidden smile, and freckles across his long nose. The flaming hair was as ginger as always, but Ron Weasley held himself higher than he did in Hogwarts, he grew into his large feet and hands. His clothes fitted him better, and Draco remembered with distaste what he used to say at school. _Don’t go making friends with the wrong sort._ It was funny, really, even to his own eyes, as the wrong sort truly showed itself. Even the clothes, where Ron now looked nicely tailored and fitted, Draco’s constant weight changes had him give up on altering what he wore and now his robes hung off him like off a coat-hanger. 

Ron showed him into the office, which was surprisingly different than the last time he saw it. It smelled of cinnamon and strong tea. The diplomas on the wall were gone, and replaced with cheery pictures of houses and cats, clearly drawn by a toddler. Draco looked around the room, taking it in.

“Do you want to sit down?”

He did, removing his overcoat and placing it over his knees. “You’re a therapist,” it wasn’t much of a question, but Weasley stifled a chuckle and nodded. 

“Many people were surprised.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Draco started backtracking, worried he was being overly insulting, “I’m not saying you can’t be a therapist. Just, didn’t see it coming. Granger, maybe, not you.”

At those words, Weasley lost all pretence of composure and broke into full on laughter. “Hermione, a therapist? Wait till I tell her that. She’d probably try to reason all her patients until they submitted to being better. No, she’s working in the Ministry, executing her 10-year plan 5 years early.”

“I see, that’s good. You’re still in touch?”

“Married, actually,” Weasley extended his left hand, where a golden band straddled the freckly ring finger.

“That’s great, that’s… really great.”

A silence fell over them, carrying with it years of hate, then confusion, then guilt. There weren’t any words left unsaid – before the war, and just after, Draco was more than vocal about his feelings about Weasley, and the Golden Trio. 

Weasley, to his credit, managed not to look uncomfortable, but Draco could feel his skin getting itchy under the thick sweater. He could take it off – he was wearing a t-shirt underneath – but that would mean bringing attention to himself. Was it a weird thing, taking a sweater off in company? He couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that around him. He couldn’t remember doing it himself. The itch was getting worse, his entire arm felt on fire, and the internal monologue has now spiralled out of control. He’d have to keep the sweater on. There was no point risking it. 

“I understand it must have come as some surprise to get the letter about your last mind-healer.”

Draco had to admit that no, it wasn’t – they made no progress in the six months he had been seeing Healer Crowley, and their relationship has gone downhill since Draco made him cry. In his defence, if one doesn’t want to know _what do you think of me, honestly_ , one ought not to ask. 

“Although I’ve been assigned to your case,” Weasley continued, making himself comfortable in the large chair opposite Draco, “I would understand it if you’d rather someone else took over. Whichever way, I want you to understand that everything said in here is completely confidential. I won’t say a word of it to either Hermione, nor Harry.”

There it was. The name no one has spoken to Draco in years. Not his mother. Not Pansy, who somehow stuck around. Not a single soul. Harry Potter. 

His ears filled with a high-pitched sound, and his entire body constricted, as if all of sudden he was dumped into the depths of the oceans. The immense pressure was crushing him, and the world was screaming at him, crying in pain.  
“I don’t mind,” he said – Draco was skilled at hiding inside his own shell. 

“Good! Lets start from the beginning then. You’ve been under Crowley for a while, and he had left me notes, but,” Weasley crunched his nose much in the way Draco remembered from Hogwarts whenever they were given a large piece of homework, “I’d rather get it from you than from him.”

For the next hour, they briefly recounted what Draco had been reluctantly discussing with his previous therapist. He felt silly, really, three years post-war and here he was, a broken shell, while the people who were in the worst of it had moved on, found careers, married. The session was different than usual, and to his own chagrin he found himself actively discussing and answering questions. Weasley was a surprisingly adequate therapist. 

“You can call me Ron if you’d rather, you know? Weasley describes upwards of twenty people now.”

“Father always said you bred like rabbits,” Draco responded, before he could stop himself. Mortified, he looked at Weasley- Ron, Ron Weasley – half expecting to see his wand drawn. But nothing came, instead the redhead through him a cheeky wink. Although preferable to a hex, this familiarity left Draco perturbed. 

“How is he?”

“Father?,” Draco asked, and Ron nodded, “Dead.”

Ron’s freckles became even more visible now he went as white as a sheet. “I’m sorry, didn’t know.”

It didn’t matter, and Draco asserted to that point. They haven’t spoken, not really, since before even the war. Not since the Mark. Not since the footsteps in the halls, drawn curtains, light annoys the snake. 

Not since the day his mother cried. 

Before leaving, Draco took what little courage he had, and asked: Does he hate me? Ron looked confused, so he clarified, _Harry. Does Harry Potter hate me._

“No, mate. He doesn’t.” And the smile the words came with was so sincere, so unlike the usual therapist’ blank stare, he almost believed them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after the war, Draco struggles to move on. When his therapist quits on him, and the new one is more familiar than he'd like, things are set to change. Can old rivalries be set aside to make way for something new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: descriptions of anxiety and ptsd at the beginning, therapy
> 
> This is a WIP - I do not have an update schedule and fit writing in between work and life. Please bare with me.

The second of May was a day like any other. Draco couldn’t sleep, but he told himself _When can you_. The dreams where bad, but they were as bad as any night. Nothing new here.

Except he knew ghosts were restless on that day. Lavender Brown’s face, so often admired by boys back at Hogwarts, now torn into shreds, visited him first. She spoke no words, and he knew _it’s not real, not real_ – but how can it be not if there she stood, all curls and blood. Not aged one day but distorted through the lens of his own, broken memory.

_I’m sorry._

It wasn’t enough, and Lavender Brown was surely joined by Colin Creevey, the boy Draco often would make fun of in earlier years. He didn’t look sixteen, the age he died – he was just as on that first day, all excitement and childish naivete, shoving his muggle camera in faces of unsuspecting wizards. He’d never stop talking. “To show my father,” he’d exclaim, and now Draco could draw parallels in death. Colin’s father would hear all about it- about the magic, the castle, the people… and Lucius heard enough too, didn’t he, as Draco unwittingly became a spy at the age of eleven.

Ron moved their session from today. Draco suggested it – no point the ginger losing out on time with his family. His brother died too, didn’t he, and Draco didn’t think he could look into the eyes of yet another casualty. He didn’t even remember his name – only that it was one of the twins.

“If you think that’s what you need, then we’ll move it. But I will be here if you change your mind.” Draco wouldn’t of course – he didn’t need to see Weasley, he didn’t need to take a break. What he needed was for everyone to leave him be. Because he was fine. All the fuss mother made, all the questions asked, first by Crowley now by Weasley, and the answers he wouldn’t – couldn’t give.

He didn’t know what time it was when he Apparated from his room straight in front of the Legilimens Foundation, one of the new store fronts opened in the aftermath of war, when Diagon Alley was rebuilding itself. It was surprisingly popular – this being the completely wrong word to use of course, Draco scolded himself for repeating Narcissa’s sentiment. _That new foundation, just opened where that dreadful joke shop used to be. Very fashionable with the younger crowd, I heard, very popular indeed._

As Draco felt his body forced out the other way of his Apparition, he stumbled and instantly remembered the breakfast he’d forgotten to eat. He wasn’t quite out of it yet, not yet fully aware of his surroundings, when a pair of strong hands caught him by each arm to steady him. Suddenly, as the world steadied itself, his view was filled by a face adorning an expression beyond astonishment and eyes, greener than he remembered.

Harry Potter looked like he wasn’t quite certain what to do now. Baffled would probably be the right expression. They stood at the edge of the pavement, Draco slowly re-establishing his equilibrium, Potter holding onto him as if he forgot how to let go. The moment over as he glanced down, panic erupting on his face.

“You’ve splinched yourself!”

“What?” asked Draco dumbly, not quite yet able to divert his gaze from the field of green. It wasn’t sneering at him, or throwing quips, nor hexes, and Draco wasn’t quite sure if this was another hallucination his unhelpful brain supplied, if he was standing on the pavement outside the _lunatic asylum_ (Narcissa’s words, when she thought he couldn’t hear) mumbling to himself.

“Malfoy, you’ve splinched yourself,” Potter reiterated, sounding frustrated, “we have to get you looked at.”

Potter pulled him by the wrist, leading him inside the Legilimens Foundation. “Why are you here?” Draco asked, cursing himself immediately. He didn’t care. It wasn’t polite to ask. It wasn’t right. He sounded like a dumb child, spouting nonsense.

Potter didn’t seem to notice his internal turmoil as they approached the front desk. “Is your medi-wizard available?,” he asked the witch behind the counter, who took one look at Draco’s left arm (which he still couldn’t really feel) and took off towards the back room. As she left, Potter turned his attention back to Draco.

“I was meeting Ron or lunch. He works here.”

“I know,” Draco answered, instantly biting his tongue.

“You know?” Potter looked surprised, until understanding breached his face, “Oh.”

An ugly, loaded silence fell between them and Draco thought _I don’t really need that arm, I can just walk out and keep walking until the Manor. The weather is good. A brisk walk. That’s all I need,_ but a wizard in green healer robes emerged with the witch from the front desk, and the blood he was dripping started making a little pool at his feet, and it was starting to _hurt._

The next half hour was a blur of red and green, and ginger hair because someone had called Ron down. More surprising even than the Weasley’s concern was the fact that Potter _stayed_. Draco was silent throughout the procedure, while the medi-wizard cast spell after spell to re-attach the missing chunk of his forearm Draco watched the scene as if from the bottom of a pond looking up at the stars.

It was strange, being silent around Potter. They never sat like this before, neither speaking, neither swearing, and the longer it went on the more antsy Draco felt. His fingers itched and he would love to crack the pale, thin knuckles, but one of his hands was still pre-occupied, and he didn’t think he could, not in company, not in front of people, the nasty _nasty habit, his father just loathed it and would give him the look, and what would they think…_

Draco was holding tight onto the edge of his seat and caught Potter looking at him with surprise.

“Does it hurt?”

The silence between broken, Draco astounded at the simple kindness in the voice which no longer sounded familiar. The same voice he would sometimes dream of back at school – nasty, hate-filled dreams – now the voice of a stranger. As if those years never happened. _Does it hurt._ Draco shook his head no.

Not long after, the skin grafted and regrown, only a faint red line on his right forearm. Matches the other, Draco thought grimly, and pulled down the sleeves down both his hand, hiding his shame.

“Can someone Apparate you home?”

They couldn’t. Narcissa was in France, visiting some friends. She couldn’t stand the reminder that was the Manor, not today – couldn’t stand the reminder that was Draco. He started to protest it was alright, he could do it, would be more careful this time, it was but an accident-

“I’ll take him,” Ron suggested and only briefly looked at the watch on his arm, but not briefly enough for Draco not to notice. Potter noticed too, and he recounted immediately.

“You’ve got the dinner, go home. No, it’s no problem, I promise I’ll make it. Just tell Molly not to wait for me, alright?”

Ron looked doubtful, but Potter checked with the medi-wizard about any follow-ups Draco needed to adhere to and before Draco formulated a single coherent thought they were leaving the Medi-wizards office and walking down the bright corridor towards the exit.

Suddenly embarrassed, Potter looked at Draco out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t mind, right Malfoy? It’s only that Ron’s family has this big dinner thing, didn’t want him to miss it.”

“Don’t mind,” Draco answered, lying. He minded, and he minded a lot.

It was one thing bumping into Potter on the street. Bad luck. Splinching himself in the process – well, what else could he expect from his abysmal magic which seemed to want him dead recently more than ever. But having the object of his darkest visions escort him home, it was too much. The Manor was in no way a _safe space_ , but it was a sanctum for his nightmares. He noticed he was wringing out his fingers, creating complicated, broken patters with the pale digits and forced himself to stop.

At the Apparition point, Potter turned to him and grabbed him by the arm. It burned more than the splinching. He looked Draco straight in the eyes, no sigh of anger, which Draco was so accustomed to seeing there. His face looked bare, almost naked, as he leaned forward and asked:

“Ready?”

 


End file.
